


Secret Santas & Second Chances

by josiemoone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Post-Canon, Post-War, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 01:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12924363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiemoone/pseuds/josiemoone
Summary: Draco Malfoy dislikes Christmas more than the rest of his colleagues, but when he is forced to participate in a Secret Santa, he finds a second chance among the pages.Winnerin the Granger Enchanted 2018 awards of Best Holiday Fic,





	Secret Santas & Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BardenBella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardenBella/gifts).



> A huge thank you to my beta LeanaM, who without wouldn't have become anything like it has. 
> 
> For you, my forever friend fairystonelove, as if I'd ever stop writing for you.

* * *

 

As soon as Draco walked into the castle, he knew something was amiss. It wasn't the giant decorated trees—those were always there—and it wasn't the scent of baked gingerbread that reminded him of Muggle shopping with his ex-girlfriend. No, it was the terrifyingly smile on Professor McGonagall. He hoped to skirt past her and head to his office, even going as far to mutter that ' _he had far too much to prepare for_ ', not that he expected she'd care. With snow clinging to his boots, from his hike around the grounds, he halted in his stride towards her, pretending to brush it off in the doorway.

Draco had been attempting, to no avail, to avoid all cheer associated with the holidays—which began twenty-four days too early for his liking—all week. His hope to evade her and be horribly grumpy was due to fail; Professor McGonagall had caught eyes with him, and her eyes bored into his soul, making it hers for the taking. He knew he was doomed.

He straightened his shoulders, his cape tightening across his back—simultaneously proud that he had gained some muscle from Quidditch and hating that he hadn't taken his mother's advice and purchased a new cape—and the strap from his bag digging into his shoulder. He slowly removed his gloves, continuing in his strides towards McGonagall, waiting for the list of his wrongdoings as he stuffed them in his bag.

He was wrong, however. Her smile, which was unexpected and unfamiliar, was not due to the pleasure of being able to tell him off; it was down to the surprise up her sleeve.

"Professor Malfoy," she said with a softness to her voice he had never heard directed at anyone except Potter.

"Are you Professor or Headmistress today?" Draco asked, knowing he was pushing his luck, but still irritated enough to try.

Her eyebrow quipped, her smile lowering a little. "Well, Professor Malfoy, have you done anything to warrant me to act as the Headmistress?"

Draco closed one eye as he pretended to think, raising his hand to tap his chin with his long index finger, muttering in fake thought, "Not today, or that I am aware of, anyway."

"Then Professor it is. I was hoping to catch you before breakfast, the others I've already spoken to."

He so desperately wanted to roll his eyes, to mumble an 'oh course you have' because even as a professor—handpicked by herself—McGonagall still kept him at arm's length. She didn't do that with the others, oh no, Granger got special invitations for tea—not that he was jealous. Longbottom was often caught in a conversation with the Headmistress between classes—again not jealous—and even McMillan had a special bond with her. Everyone got invited to the office for social reasons except him. He, however, only ever saw the round walls when he had been too relaxed with his students. Even if his defence on the matter was unflawed and perfectly within reason, she still felt it was necessary to remind him of how vital Potions was to students. As if he didn't know that; as if he hadn't said that very thing at his interview for the position.

Professor McGonagall raised her chin ever so slightly, and while her smile attempted to make her look warm, the rest of her expression painted the usual contempt for disagreement across her face. "All the _other_ professor's are participating in a ' _Secret Santa'_ , as the Muggles, call it. It was Professor Thomas' idea—" _of course it fucking was_ , Draco thought to himself, not showing a speck of annoyance just yet. "—he thinks it will be good for all the Professors to bond, especially since not all staff have taken an interest or participated in team building."

Draco didn't need a notepad and a week's worth of investigation to know that the dig was aimed at him, it was written all over her eyebrows and lips. He had no idea why any of them wished to bond; they already knew as much as they needed to know about each other (?):

 _Granger_ : stuck in her ways and the hero of the pack; probably gives out hugs.  
_Thomas_ : lovable jokester who's actually made Muggle Studies fun, according to his third-year potion class, gifts sweets for correct answers.  
_Longbottom_ : king of plants, who Draco heard, can enchant certain plants to dance.

Although, he did consider that he should stop listening to the table of Hufflepuffs in one of his second-year class, since they all seemed a little out of it.

Then, there was him. The one who didn't compare and never would; the one with a name more tainted than the rest:

Malfoy: lurking snake who lives in the dungeons, occasionally seen to be untrustworthy and sarcastic, approach with caution.

Sighing with heavy irritation, Draco licked his lips. "And how does one participate?"

McGonagall who knew he'd agree out of ease, held out a piece of parchment with a look in her eyes that he should take it and not ask questions. "You have seventeen days to get to know who you are buying a gift for, since most have already been paired up, I _suggest_ spending as much time as possible finding their likes and dislikes so you can choose appropriately. The faculty will be opening their gifts in front of _everyone_ on Christmas Day."

Draco took the parchment from her hand, fighting the urge to snatch it like a child, and stared down at the green and red bowed, folded parchment, finding a candy-cane stuck in the middle of the knot. Of course it would be decorated, of course, it would smell like peppermint and all things festive. Draco nodded, offering a smile to McGonagall—not needing to ignite another debate about why a smile should be worn as though it was his uniform—and dodged past her. Instead of heading to his office, he chose to march to the library to undo the ridiculousness he had in his hands, hating Christmas a little more with each step.

* * *

Malfoys were creatures of habit, and like his student-self, Draco headed into the library without as much of a nod to Madam Pince, storming past bookshelf after bookshelf in search of the only place he sought. It didn't take him a minute to find it, the darkest corner of the library, and he sat down comfortably, being able to relax here more than anywhere else. He was thankful that not much about his second-home had changed during the restoration. He undid the bow that kept everything neatly together. The candy-cane clattered onto the desk before him, and the bows melted away into the air, and he half-smiled at the beauty of the magic the ribbon had been crafted from. All that was left was the parchment, which he then found out was blank.

If not for the rules, which he diligently followed, he would have screamed, throwing a few books for good measure and possibly kicking the bench. This holiday always brought the worst out of him, but it worsened when absurd games were created by ignorant people he chose to keep at arm's length.

He was all set to open one of the windows and _Leviosa_ the thing out of the fucking window when his eyes caught sight of ink crossing the page.

Draco, not usually one to be freaked by something so innocent, took a step back, his whole body tensing, a thousand thoughts running through his mind. His hand clapped to his chest, as though it would soothe his now raging heartbeat; a chill spread down his spine as the ink began to merge into words, black, swirly words.

_**I assume Headmistress McGonagall has given you this by now. Hello, Mystery-Professor, are you there?** _

His eyes narrowed, waiting for anything, something, that proved his initial doubts. While he had been around dark magic most of his life and should be used to the signature pull it had on a person, which this particular thing did not have, he still felt cautious. Draco hadn't forgotten the diary that had a piece of soul inside, that his father stupidly, foolishly and ignorantly had given to a student. He hadn't forgotten the snake that seemed like any other bloody snake, except it ate insolent Death Eaters, and had a piece of a deranged man's soul in it.

A lot of his insecurities with apparent harmless objects came from the fact that one wizard placed parts of his soul inside of them. This, surely, couldn't be the case. McGonagall had given it to him, after all, and she wouldn't be stupid enough to hand out things branded with dark magic—she was intelligent for one.

Hesitating, Draco moved closer to the bench, squatting down to look at the ink over the page, seeing how it bubbled above the paper as though someone had written it there and then. For several minutes he surveyed it from every angle, wondering if he should burn the piece or simply place a quill on the parchment and see what happened. If he did the latter, Draco knew he could be warranting whatever was on the other side acknowledgement he had received it, and he wasn't sure he wanted to play that hand just yet.

He ran his hands through his hair, spreading his fingers as he felt it move between the gaps, tickling his hands as he closed his eyes. He took several breaths, attempting to slow the nervousness inside; quiet the flight-or-fight mode that had activated in his immediate panic. Slowly he opened one eye, staring at the page as he saw the message still there; half-thankful it was, wondering if he had imagined it all because he was having some sort of moment.

Draco lowered his hands to his side, mustering the Malfoy confidence and seating himself at the bench. He rummaged in his cape for his wand, gripping the base tightly, becoming one with the stick that had once betrayed him and quickly _Accio_ 'd a quill.

_Hello._

_Short and blunt, straight to the point_ , Draco thought as he sat back on the bench, his spine meeting the wood. He placed the quill flat on the table, thankful that in the years since being a student only magic-refilling quills were to be used at Hogwarts.

He wasn't sure who he wished to be on the other end, not that he had a relationship with any of his colleagues. If they were a female, that would mean he'd have to shop like a female, and he wasn't sure he could do that as inconspicuously as he liked. Although he had picked up a few skills in his previous relationship. However, if they happened to be a male, Draco would have to get to know them or risk the chance of buying them a gift only he would want. Fuck, he hated Christmas; expectations that were impossible to meet, by people who piled too much pressure on themselves to outshine the other, with money that neither wished to spend, for presents neither wanted to receive. It was barbaric, and Draco was just thankful that his mother told him precisely what she wished, and his father always had the same thing—a new cloak and cufflinks.

The only person he was excited to buy for was Potter, the two of them having created an odd-bond post-war and post-trial that involved them sending ridiculous gifts to one another. Last year, Draco had outdone himself by sending a large, ornate toad with matching gnome that was supposed to go in a garden—however, Draco had used magic to stick both items to Potter's desk permanently. Potter had yet to get him back, but thankfully Draco's desk was not based where students saw him—unlike Potter who had Aurors in and out of his office at all times.

_**Merry Christmas. Do you use books in your class?** _

Draco instantly rolled his eyes. They were joyful, which meant that anyone that worked at Hogwarts could be on the other end.

_Yeah. Cool._

He waited, smirking to himself. They had nothing to respond, he had left no door open for them to enter; no window for them to sneak through. Nothing. He had _technically_ participated, he had replied, _twice_.

_**You are going to be difficult aren't you? Narrowing down for me at least who this could be. Do you like your job?** _

Tutting, losing patience for the person already, and it hadn't even been an hour, he plunged his hand into his bag, pulling out the homework given in by his NEWT students. While he was here, he could at least use the silence for good, and not for participating in a ridiculous event that he hadn't even been asked if he'd like to be a part of. Although Draco wasn't exactly upset about that, more that he had no idea who was on the other end.

_**I know you're still there, I can sense it. I bet you are in the Great Hall? A little busy, but soon you won't be able to blend in. I am going to figure out who you are before Christmas Eve.** _

Draco snarled, snatching his quill from the desk, scratching into the parchment.

_Fantastic use of your time, I assume you're an amazing professor. Probably Neville Longbottom. He has time to waste. Charming plants instead of ensuring they grow correctly._

It irked him to write his colleague's full name, never even having greeted him with his first name, never mind using it. But, for some obscene reason, he wanted to play the game, and he didn't want to give himself away in the first hour.

_**Neville can't charm plants, he isn't a plant-whisperer. You know that isn't even a proven factual thing? Have you ever read a book about plants, they adore the sun, not trampling people who try to hurt them.** _

_**Also. You're so wrong.** _

_Oh I know I am_ , Draco smirked to himself, rubbing his hands together as he realised what he had been presented with. "Hello, Granger," he smirked, twirling the quill around in his fingers.

* * *

One week later and Draco suspected that Hermione Granger had no idea she was talking to him. Otherwise he suspected a lot more curse words would be coming up on his page. At first he had aimed to wind her up—knowing just how much she hated hot and cold behaviour. One minute he'd be her friend, and then being as icy as the weather outside—unfortunately it didn't work in his favor, and the two of them would end up discussing why he needed a better outlet, other than a piece of parchment. It didn't matter that he professed he didn't need therapy, Hermione gave it him regardless. Just like she had done when they had been together.

It had begun when he got the position of potions Professor. At first, she had remained distant and weary—just as he had expected her to be. Then she softened, helping him when he tripped over a black cat and dropped all his parchment. He could have Accio'd all of it, and Hermione knew that, but she didn't let up—just like she never did. For months they remained secretive, kissing in empty classrooms and tarnishing clean desks. She brought out parts of him that had shied away, and he convinced parts of her to simmer, helping her with the weight she carried everyday.

He couldn't even remember the fight that finished their relationship, all he knew was that it manifested from his need to control things and her need to control things, which exploded into a fiendfyre of distrust. It didn't matter, he, like the idiot he was, hadn't gone after her—he hadn't even sent her a letter or flowers like he should have done.

When they first began writing on this forsaken parchment he had wanted to tell her, coyly, that he still loved a girl he had hurt. Somehow, Draco found that he couldn't play the games he was known for as a student, and instead chose to re-learn things he hadn't forgotten, while finding out things he hadn't cared to know before. He found out that she also disliked peppermint as food, but didn't mind it as a beverage—something he found baffling and confusing—and she had a sweet spot for Christmas fudge, something he saved for later, never having known those two things before.

While initially not being someone interested in the event, he soon realised that he had the chance to show how caring he could be, and how involved he could be to his colleagues. Draco set about to get Granger the best present he could, knowing he could use the year of their relationship to his advantage. It wasn't that he felt the need to make anything up to her per se, they had both amicably chosen to end it. But it didn't sit right with him.

Draco knew he could apologise just like he had done after the war. He hadn't even thought about it before, and this time he knew he'd spend far too long agonising over what to say—not feeling like he truly needed to apologise, but then, neither did she.

_**You had a good day?** _

This had become their thing. After the initial awkwardness of knowing he was talking to the very witch he had bullied mercilessly for years, watched be tortured, gained her forgiveness and then dated, only to lose her a year later, Draco instigated conversations. He was forever fighting the impulse to ask her about her bush of a head or the new rings under her eyes from thinking, studying, and being her busy-body self. It was harder when she would drop something personal—something he already knew—like the fact she had a small tattoo of the date the war ended just underneath her left breast. Although she didn't explicitly say where it was located when they talked through the parchment. However, once it was brought up, he couldn't silence the memories of his lips kissing it, whispering sweet apologies into it as she ran her fingers through his hair.

He ended up not replying for an hour, needing a cold shower, only to return and find she had fallen asleep.

It didn't matter whether he bumped into her the next day or not—not that Draco knew if Hermione realised it was him who was her correspondent—she would still ask him _how he was_ via parchment that night, even if Hermione had seen him fuming in the day.

_It wasn't drinking-in-my-office bad, but it wasn't drinking-on-the-Astronomy-Tower good._

He smirked to himself. The one positive about the apparent secrecy of this whole thing was that he could be honest. Something he hadn't been in a long time. Especially with her.

Drinking had become his vice when they split, pouring a glass a night that turned into two, and then three. He could go nights without even one, and he had tested himself in October to prove he could—fearful he'd turn into his Great-Grandfather, the alcoholic.

While the girlfriend version of Hermione would have been judgemental, the parchment version of her was not. She asked him questions, and told him she understood, and for the first time in a long time, he actually felt she did. Even when he had lain with her in bed, skin to skin, arm around her, he didn't think she got him—and on some level, he didn't think he got her. They didn't fit, not as comfortably as they'd like to be, and he wondered if that was another underlying issue as to why they hadn't worked.

_**Sounds as healthy as your other vices. Do you always drink alone?** _

Not knowing what possessed him, he hovered over the parchment, biting back the desire to write, _well you could always join me._ The truth was, Granger wasn't like the _Granger_ he had known two years ago. Yes she was stuck up, yes she was stubborn, nosy and impossibly intelligent, but she was also a crazy level of attractive—in a way he hadn't expected when he was fourteen, fifteen and not in a way he had appreciated when he had her. She had grown into herself more, finding a confidence he knew Hermione hadn't had when they were dating. She was also a lot wittier than he remembered her being, another sign she was comfortable with who she was, another attractive feature he hadn't known he wanted on her.

_I feel you know the answer to that._

_Safe and easy_ , he thought to himself, sipping on the whisky he had in hand—just like he did on most nights when he marked. Then it dawned on him, if she did know it was him, did she also know that he saw her in this new light? Draco had been comfortable with her, sharing and communicating—something the physical versions of themselves _did not do._ And never _had._ Could she tell that he thought of her more now than he had done before?

No. He reassured himself, he was the king of concealment. He got away with staring down Daphne's blouse for most of fifth year without Pansy knowing, the proof being he still had most of his manhood—what wasn't taken by You-Know-Who when he claimed him and his parents as his slaves. Then his second proof, Dumbledore, and eventually Potter, were the only two people to suspect he had been up to anything during his sixth year.

_**I guess I do. I don't like it though. That you drink alone. You know it's a proven fact that people who drink alone can develop social disorders.** _

Draco smiled. He actually smiled. As soon as he realised it, he vanished it from his face, staring around the room—although he knew he was alone.

_You sound almost as if you care._

He threw back the remainder of the glass, catching the sight of the squid swimming past his window. His heart was beating twice the speed it usually did. Something was on the line, but he didn't know what, or how. Draco was bold; bolder than he had been since school—not wanting, for once, to play it safe.

_**I'm Santa, of course I care.** _

Tease, Draco smirked to himself. He caught sight of the pile of parchment he still needed to grade before the end of tonight. Grabbing his wand from beside him, generating the time from the ends of his wand and groaned. It wasn't the answer he had wanted, and while the alcohol had softened the sting, he didn't want to give her an answer she desired either.

_Ugh._

Perfect, he thought. It summed up his mood entirely.

* * *

Draco frowned, having had the parchment open flat on his desk for half a bottle now, and still nothing. The rain was hammering against the lake above his window, indicating the storm that had landed upon Scotland was here and not going away fast. It was the last evening of term, and he wouldn't have to socialise for several days, so of course he drank earlier than usual. Well, that had been his initial thought, anyway.

He realised two drinks in that he actually wouldn't mind some company. Although he knew how needy that was.

Granger, who up to this point had always written as soon as she got back to her office or quarters from dinner, was later than usual. He knew exactly how long it took her, the two of them having snuck there so often before.

He had considered writing to her first, but somehow it felt wrong, and very unlike him. He also didn't want to take anything away from her—although he suspected _that_ was pride and not courteous behaviour. As another drink travelled down his throat, he considered it once more before talking himself out of it, wondering what happened to the sneering and snarling man he once was. Hermione, he breathed, not ever using her first name, just to avoid the thrum in his chest. An assault of memories fell down on him like shattered glass from relationship past. Although his mind had begun to panic, his body didn't, needing to find her and be close, urging him to find her and reunite.

That was when he decided to write to his mother, using traditional ink and quill—because no matter how good the new quills were, she always knew he hadn't used real ink. He was half-way through his apology speech for not being able to come home when he saw her message appear on the parchment, and it felt like a punch to the gut.

_**I've had a rubbish day.** _

Dropping the quill he was using for his mother's letter to the desk, he picked up the one he had used since their first interaction. He was scared that if he changed anything, the illusion would burst, that she'd stop talking and his chance—whatever that was—would be gone.

_What happened? Talk to Uncle Santa._

Draco smirked down at his cleverness, doing a little shoulder shuffle at how hilarious he could be—although it wasn't that clever and he suspected the alcohol and lack of food was altering his mind.

_**Ugh.** _

_That's my line._

He didn't wait a heartbeat, something in him becoming concerned and protective, a feeling he had never had before. He waited. He counted the seconds, but it turned into a minute. He counted rumbles of thunder, but lost count when he hiccuped.

Yet, Granger hadn't responded. Draco's heart was in his throat, beating violently against his tonsils, almost making him choke on air. His lungs tightened, his bones aching for something as he realised every muscle in his body had tensed.

" _Fuck_ ," he whispered. "I fucking care, alright Granger? I fucked up. Now. Respond." His eyes pierced the paper so intently he was sure it would catch fire.

A knock sounded through the room and he jumped so violently the glass in his hand fell to the floor, shattering on impact.

"Double fuck," Draco hissed, standing from his chair, stumbling over his desk for his wand, knocking an old inkwell over. "Triple fucking fuck, _fuck_!"

Knuckles met the door once more. Draco cursed under his breath, stuck between his desk and the annoying idiot who disturbed his drinking. With a harsh flick of his wrist, his desk was rid of the spilled ink—although the Christmas parchment was spoiled. He dreaded what she must be thinking on the other end.

Crossing his office in several strides, his hand gripped the doorknob and wrenched it from the frame, lips parted, ready to verbally castrate whoever had disturbed him. But he didn't speak. His eyes fixed on the brown eyes staring into his, his mind silenced and frozen in confusion. This _had_ to be a mistake because Hermione Granger couldn't possibly be standing at his doorway, and she most definitely didn't want anything to do with him for a while, ' _until he got his life together_ '—or that is what she had said in their last, and final conversation. Draco couldn't move, his feet unable to even shuffle. Instead, all he could do was vibrate in place, in panic, fear, and something he couldn't quite name. So he closed the door, shutting it right in her face.

Draco held the door, pressing his forehead against it as he counted to ten, then to fifteen before her knuckles tapped the door once more. _Fuck,_ she's keen.

"Malfoy?"

"Granger," he mumbled into the wood. He could still see those brown orbs as if she was standing right before him

He heard her sigh, light and depleted. "Open the door."

Draco rose his head from the door, slowly twisting the handle as he opened it half-way. She was looking at him like he was a fool—and while he knew he was, he despised that look on her face all the same.

He cleared his throat, unsure why, but somehow it urged his brain to find words he needed to speak. "Hello…"

"Evening," she replied, curtly but firmly. "You going to invite me in?"

"Not especially."

Hermione folded her arms, and he refused to look at what that did to her chest. He knew he'd be caught, he knew not looking would probably cause his neck to snap, but he took his chances.

Draco opened the door more, letting his hand fall to his side from the door entirely. "What do you need, Granger? Because the potions room is closed and my supplies are low because students don't seem to follow instructions."

She tilted her head, a soft smirk playing over her lips he quite liked on her. "Or they're brewing potions in bathrooms."

"What?"

"Nothing." She smiled, replacing the smirk with an angelic smile. "I know you're the one writing to me."

Draco raised a brow. "Well. What a way to ruin a surprise, Granger. I'm so... _shocked_ and—"

"Save it. I know you're more intelligent than that. So don't bullshit me. God, you're more insufferable now than my NEWT students."

Draco leant against the wall by his door, her arms still folded giving him the look that spoke a thousand words—she was pissed off.

"Is that why you have a wand up your arse?" Draco asked, attempting to be nonchalant. "Your NEWT class giving you hassle?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, but not at him—somehow he could tell. Her usual signs of annoyance with him were more exaggerated, with an added hiss under her breath, but that was gone. She didn't ask a second time—not that she ever did—pushing lightly past him as she entered his office, and a breeze of deja vu ran down his spine.

Draco remembered a moment like this before. Her perfume filling the air, and a devious look in her eyes he wouldn't believe ever could exist if not for seeing it. It was in her eyes now, and this time he knew he'd be a slave for it—he knew he couldn't ever resist.

"Granger—"

"I miss you."

He slammed the door shut, his lips parted, his head tilted to the side in shock. The air in between them twisted before tightening to a breaking point; tension falling down on them, blanketing the room like the storm that was raging over the grounds.

"You... _what—"_

Hermione pulled down her blouse, straightening her shoulders and adopting the stiff position he'd had to _fuck_ out of her previously. "I miss you. I was…" She sighed, heavy, hard before dipping her head, her hair curtaining her face. "This isn't easy for me, okay? I know everyone expects me to have everything together, but I don't, and I can't always and this is hard, Draco. This is as hard as…"

He could call it second-nature, or impulse, but he settled for what was right. Draco crossed the room, closing the gap. He held her shoulders, not knowing if he could do anything more intimate. He wanted to hold her together, needing to hold her together, protect and cherish her like he had been unable to do before.

As he touched her a flash of lightning met the lake, rippling light through the water, casting the room in fragmented lines—just like their souls.

"I can't be without you, and I hate saying that because I don't _need_ you, I don't—"

"I know that," he said truthfully, because he knew she didn't. He had seen it, painfully so.

Hermione's head rose, her eyes meeting his and the water that lined the bottom made something inside of him crack—not sure if it was his heart, for he had convinced himself that had broken a long time ago.

Her lips trembled. "I asked for you," she nervously whispered. "In the secret Santa, I asked and... _was_ it a mistake?"

Draco rubbed his thumb against her blouse, feeling the silk and knowing he was only a piece of fabric away from her skin—skin he should have spent longer caressing when he had the chance. A rumble of thunder came from above, and he felt her shake in his hands.

"What are you asking me?"

"I'm asking…" Her eyes darted from his to his lips, and he felt his throat run dry, not sure if he could handle another touch and then being denied for the rest of his life. It had been hard once, but twice he was sure would kill him. "I'm asking if you'd like your present now."

He didn't mean to frown; he didn't mean to be so stupid so quickly—all the same, he was both, simultaneously. "Granger, are you—"

She silenced him. It was futile to fight, and moronic that he hadn't known what she meant, but the surprise and the lack of time to throw up a guard made it so much more fantastic. Her lips, cooler than his, pressed against his, fitting together like a jigsaw that had previously been incomplete. His hand grasped the back of her neck, lacing fingers in curls he had never forgotten the feel of, the other hand holding her hip, keeping her here, holding her close. They kissed like they had never kissed before, apologies and forgiveness; words and promises swirling between them, without a noise breaking the moment.

Their bodies bridged the gap, hip to hip, chest to chest. Draco traced her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, tasting the sweet elf-wine on her lips, knowing that a vice shared is a vice halved, and he couldn't help but half-smile against her.

He wanted to lose himself forever in this moment, and they did, their lips not breaking for several minutes as they kissed their way back to one another—reuniting properly in discarded clothes that cloaked the stone floor. Her lips whispered charms like it was poetry: locking, cushioning, birth control, and he had never found it sexier. Not until the room was washed in her sweet mewls caused by his touch, and his low moans at the way she felt around him as her back curled against his desk. As the storm above crashed down right over Hogwarts, ripping apart the sky, the two of them came together. Falling like the rain back to Earth, their minds filled with answers to questions they hadn't yet spoken.

Draco rested his head against her neck after they both found their underwear, neither wishing to completely dress as they lay as one on his desk. They found a place without struggle, neither of them uncomfortable, their hands entwined, palm to palm. "You missed me," he teased breathlessly, her heart beating against his ear.

Hermione let out a shuddering breath. "Shut up."

He smiled against her, his other hand tracing her ribs as he felt the perspiration from their reunion. "I was, am, a mess without you."

"You're more of an arsehole I'll tell you that. I don't think I've known someone who visits Headmistress McGonagall's office so often—not even a student."

Draco laughed. "I like to set new records."

Her laugh mingled in the air, ringing around the four walls and brightening the darkened space. Even her presence made his office less torturous, but somehow he didn't know how to say it—he didn't know how to say anything.

"I did miss you. Every day."

He moved his head, looking up at her, watching her look at him. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?" She simply nodded, and he sighed. "Fine. I hate Christmas and all it—"

"Draco!" Hermione hissed, her eyes flashing with anger.

He sighed through his teeth, swallowing as he met her eyes. "Hermione…" He rolled his lips. "I love you, alright? From the bottom of your feet to the top of that bushy hair. I've been a broken man since then, and while I don't _want_ to admit that, I realise I must. You're...insufferable and stubborn, but somehow I like that."

Rising from her, turning his back to her before picking up her blouse and handing it to her without looking.

"I should have said something, and I shouldn't have just ignored–"

"I'm sorry."

Draco whipped his head around so quickly it made him nauseous. Her eyes filled with tears, and she held the blouse under her chin, using her hands to cup her mouth, her elbows pinning the material over her breasts.

"You're...Hermione, no—"

Her head was nodding furiously. "But I a-m." Her voice trembling as tears softly fell down her cheeks. "I am sorry-y because I'm so st-stubborn and I know you were strugg-gling and I pushed you-u like I always do-o. And Harry-y warned me-e—"

He cupped her face, his body settling between her legs before he knew he had moved, as he used his thumbs to wipe her tears. "You shouldn't believe Potter, Granger. For one, he's the Boy Who Tells Lies." A spluttered laugh fell from her lips, one that pulled at the corners of his lips. "Granger…" Her eyes did not meet his. "Hermione—" and then he was washed in amber and chocolate—with something in between, "— I missed you... _every_ damn day. You aren't the only stubborn arse in this room."

Her head nodded softly, and he continued to stroke her cheeks with the pads on his thumbs. "Don't leave me."

"I won't," she replied.

"I can't cope if you do."

Hermione's eyes widened a little, and he knew her mind exploded from the confession. "This was your present."

Draco smirked. "Sex?"

"No," she laughed, "a second chance. Us. Well, a better us. A second, first chance."

"Oh," he said, faking solemn. "I mean that sounds great but, you know sex—" Her hand whacked him in the ribs, his body twitching to the side as they laughed lightly. "And there was me thinking I needed to trap you under some mistletoe."

Hermione blushed. "You wouldn't have done that."

"You underestimate how much I need you." Again her cheeks flushed, brighter this time. "You aren't a present, Hermione. You're a gift to my life, for sure. However, I'd be happy to try again."

Her fingers brushed a loose strand of his blond hair from his face, her eyes staring into his—amber clashing with silver, making a colour so bright and stunning that it could replace the sun. "Merry Christmas."

"Too early," Draco said, moving his lips close to hers, "for one, ew. For two, Merry Sexmas is the new name. For three," his teeth nipped at her lip before letting it go with a snap, "you've got a few more days, so I guess you can either wrap and unwrap my presents a few times—just to perfect it for the big day. Or, you can go back to your lonely office, knowing all the students have gone home, and wait until the twenty-fifth to see me again." He wiggled his brows, watching her smile just like he remembered she did.

Hermione didn't answer, wrapping her hand around his neck, bringing his lips back to hers—completing them both, and the winter storm above silenced in their reunion.

* * *

On Christmas Day morning, feeling the tingling of Christmas hate bubbling on his skin, Draco dressed in a red, holly decorated, festive tie—the only tie in his wardrobe that wasn't grey, black or green. His eyes occasionally moved to the parchment, awaiting the message that she was on her way.

He had thought it was foolish she wanted to spend Christmas Eve apart, but then this was Hermione, and once she had a ridiculous idea in her head, it was hard to convince it to leave it.

" _It's romantic."_

" _It's off-the-charts crazy, just like you," he'd replied bitterly. "For one, our relationship failing or succeeding doesn't depend on whether we spend tonight together—we aren't getting married tomorrow." A soft sigh came from her lips, and he whipped his head to face her. "We are_ not _getting married tomorrow."_

_Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course not. There's nothing planned, no ring, no guest list, no dress." His heart furrowed its way back into its rightful place as he nodded. "I just thought you'd be more excited to see me tomorrow, on the day you seem to despise if you were able to look forward to seeing me."_

And so she left at 6pm, claiming she had ' _marking'_ to do, even if they both knew that she didn't, having had it done the day it was handed in—bloody organised witch. Draco had grumbled about his office, eventually retiring to his room, attempting to ignore the smell of her perfume in his bedsheets. It was difficult, of course it was, the bloody witch had scented his entire place.

_**On my way, Your Secret Santa. HG x** _

Draco rolled his eyes, folding the parchment over as he stared at the bow covered present, grabbing his wand. He applied a cleaning charm to his office, watching all the tiny bottles of newly made potions fly away into their new rightful places, wanting to hide last night's lack of sleep.

He knew it took her five minutes to get here; her secret passageway here aiding her. Which provided him with five minutes of pure panic because would he fuck this up again? Of course he would. Would he insult her every other day without knowing, thinking, and being aware? Of course. And as the panicked worries mounted, Draco began to realise that he wasn't entirely sure why she wanted him back—when he wouldn't even want himself back. And he loved himself.

Hermione knocked, right on queue, not waiting for him to open it and just walked right in. "Merry Christmas, Draco—"

"Why do you love me?"

Hermione's eyes widened, her head jolting back. "Wow. Did you get any sleep?"

Draco frowned, giving her the answer he wasn't prepared to say. "Don't distract me with questions that show you care, Granger. Please, humour me, or put me out of my misery because I'm thinking and logically—"

"Logically," she interrupted, her voice going over the top of his, "I love you. It's unexplainable, just how love should be. Yes, I should hate you for being an arse, rude, in your younger days a blood-supremacist, the opposition, a fool, posh and—"

"I'd really like you to get to the good parts, you know, if you could."

Hermione smiled. "You're also a nice guy—when you want to be."

Draco tapped his foot, nervously waiting, but when no more words came, he looked her dead in the eyes. "That's... _it?_ "

"No." She smirked innocently. "But if I told you all at once, your head would inflate, it wouldn't fit through the door, and then you'd spend Christmas alone—just like you want to—and I wouldn't have something to ogle at as I cut into my turkey." She moved closer to him, her arms wrapping around his waist. "And then, once dinner is over, we can walk to the edge of the grounds and go to the Burrow. Leana will be excited to see you, and James."

He smirked as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, a smile growing at his lips. "Of course she will be, the poor Weasley girl will be thankful for something pretty to look at. You know, because Father Weasley—"

"You love Ron," Hermione smirked.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Malfoys do not love things that aren't bushy-know-it-alls, Granger."

"Fine, you enjoy his company."

"I will admit that the redhead has grown on me, like a wart. I rather enjoy his mockings of Potter." Her hand swatted him, and he laughed, capturing her lips. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Draco."

* * *

 

**xXx**

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr: [JLPierre](http://jlpierre.tumblr.com/)


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